


Yes, Doctor

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Established Relationship, M/M, Medical Kink, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, Playing Doctor, Porn With Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is intrigued to find that Sherlock has a medical kink and wants to "play doctor." What a happy coincidence that John happens to be a doctor!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, Doctor

***

“You’re not serious are you?” John huffed. The stony face Sherlock presented from the couch indicated that no, he was not kidding. John sobered instantly.

“Oh, right, right. Okay, so you’ve got a medical kink. You like to 'play doctor,' then?"  John leaned forward in his chair, and rested his cup of tea on one knee.

Sherlock raised a silent eyebrow in reply.

“How does that work exactly?” John asked, rubbing one hand over his chin.

“In the usual way,” Sherlock allowed, waving an elegant hand across the air like he was shooing the ridiculous away.

“You’re going to make me just figure this out aren’t you?” John laughed. 

“I trust you,” Sherlock said, and went back to his laptop. And there it was in a nutshell. Sherlock did actually trust John.

John Watson, M.D. had spent a number of years working as an actual doctor in a variety of settings both civilian and military. He was chagrined to admit though that he had somehow missed out on “playing doctor” with anyone. Growing up, he’d stolen some kisses from girls down the lane.  He’d had a few memorable wanks with a lad on his rugby team in his early teens, but that was it before reaching the depth and breadth of his fairly vanilla adult sex life. For Sherlock, though, he was willing to expand some horizons. Christ, with Sherlock, there were no horizons – it all just expanded out into the ether.

It was but a few days later when Sherlock gave John one of those piercing looks that always stopped him in his tracks. “I checked our schedules. I see you might be free for a special appointment this afternoon, Dr. Watson.”

“What? Oh, OH. Right, you clean off the kitchen table, and I’ll get my gear.”

Between the cases, and John’s part-time work at the local clinic, it had been awhile since they’d made time for each other, and John was oddly looking forward to this. Clinical detachment was something he had worked hard to maintain to serve his patients, vulnerable in their pain and their nudity. This sexy doctor thing would be something  . . . a bit different.

John stepped into the kitchen wearing his white coat. He held a clipboard (props helped), and smiled up at Sherlock perched stiffly on the table he had not only cleared, but scrubbed in preparation.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Holmes is it?” 

John smiled his best friendly-doctor smile, and flipped through the pages clipped to the board.  One seemed to be last week’s shopping list. Milk, bread, and oranges were crossed off, but rat poison, plasma, and feathers still remained.  John wondered how pressing the need was for those things.  No matter. John hastily abandoned the clipboard on the kitchen worktop as Sherlock glared at his inattention suspiciously.

“Yes, doctor, though you may call me _Sherlock,_ ” he replied obediently.

“Well, Sherlock, I see you’re due for a physical today. Any specific complaints I should know about before we get started?”

“I have had some pains lately,” Sherlock admitted.

“Pains? What sort, and where?” John’s brow furrowed up in concern.

“Phantom pains,” Sherlock said pointedly widening his eyes to show John he was being a prat if he took any of this seriously, “and they travel.”

“Oh, right.  Where do these pains usually occur?”

“In New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock quipped out. “I cannot tolerate stupidity. It hurts enormously.”

“Ah,” John said, pretending to ponder this with a very serious face. “And where in your body,” John asked leaning in closer, “do you generally feel this pain of the stupid?”

“Simply everywhere,” Sherlock drawled, one side of his mouth curled and one perfectly-matched eyebrow raised.  John hated to admit it, but he loved that public-school-boy sneer.

“Yes, right.” John nodded trying not to laugh.  “Do you feel the pain, ah, here?" He asked reaching forward to run one fingertip slowly under Sherlock’s chin, and down that never-ending neck.

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock said, tipping his head slightly to better bare his throat.

“How about here?” John reached over to unbutton the top two buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, leaning in to mouth gently over the elegant collar bones revealed.

“Yes.” Sherlock inhaled quickly as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Been having any pains _here?”_ John asked a bit more breathlessly as he let his palm fall down to cup Sherlock’s crotch, and gently squeeze.  Sherlock was already half hard, but leapt to higher attention under his doctor’s hand. John felt his own cock twitch in sympathy.

“Yes,” Sherlock said a bit more emphatically.

“Excellent.” John leaned in to growl against Sherlock's right ear. “A full exam is definitely what you need today.”

John threaded his free hand up into Sherlock’s curls. He urged the man's head further back, giving his mouth better access to the sensitive skin behind his ear. Sherlock hummed as John pressed soft kisses against him, and nipped down the length of his sternomastoid — God, to his dying day he would never get enough of this neck. When John licked a stripe back up to Sherlock’s jaw, the man shuddered under him.

“Why don’t you remove your clothes down to your underwear, please, sir,” he murmured against Sherlock’s smooth skin. Sherlock had nothing in reply, his mouth slightly parted, his breath coming ragged. 

John pulled back abruptly. A jolly clap of his hands startled Sherlock upright, snapping his eyes open. “I’ll be back in just a few moments when you’re ready. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find you right as rain.” With that, John winked, and quickly backed out of the kitchen, nipping into the loo.

Sherlock stared after him incredulously. “But John . . .”

John shut the door chuckling to himself. He didn’t generally make patients wait for the sheer pleasure of it, but he thought of all the times Sherlock had left him hanging at a crime scene. He decided a little turnabout was fair play. After flipping through an old magazine by the bog roll for a reasonably annoying amount of time, he stood, washed his hands, and re-emerged with a cheerful smile. Sherlock sat on the table in nothing but a pair of black silk briefs (John’s favorites on him), and an impressive erection straining against the fabric. Ah, curious, the waiting was a GOOD thing.

John stepped forward briskly warming his stethoscope between his palms. “Let’s have a listen to your heart and lungs, shall we?”  Sherlock merely nodded at him.

John loved the human body in all its many forms. He loved learning about the muscles, and sinews that tied the latticework of sturdy white bones together.  He loved the beat of hearts, the ever- present whoosh of air in lungs that symbolized the very stuff of life itself.  He loved the intricate dance of chemicals and motivations that propelled the many bodies that came under his care – the tall, the tiny, the muscled, the lushly-curved, the lean, the scarred, the freckled – it was all a gorgeous part of the human spectrum.  And Sherlock. God, he was in a category all on his own. John wasn’t ashamed to admit that the long, lanky drink-of-water had hooked all of his senses from their first meeting at Bart’s onward. Smooth alabaster skin, stormy-grey eyes, that sweet musky smell of his, and that voice, GOD, that rumbling, jaguar-on-steroids voice. Well, Dr. Watson was a man besotted, what could he say?

John enjoyed slipping into the routine of a general physical. He listened to Sherlock's chest and back, happy to hear that all was functioning beautifully. He felt the glands behind and under Sherlock’s jaw with a firm hand, had Sherlock lie back with a rolled towel behind his head, and palpitated his abdomen all the while keeping up a steady patter about the latest spot of sunny weather they’d been having. Sherlock bore it all with a surprising goodwill.  John felt secretly pleased to get the chance to make sure all was well with his love. Sherlock truly did NOT suffer himself to be poked and prodded in the name of medicine very often.

“Any nicotine, alcohol, or other recreational drug use I should know about?” John asked as he finished up.

“Yes to the first, occasionally for the second, and not for ten years on the last.” Sherlock answered. 

“Hmmm, let’s see if we can cut down on the nicotine, yes?”

Sherlock pulled a moue with those impossible lips. “I am John. No cigarettes for six months, one week, and six days, and only one patch every three days.” 

John realized he was letting the doctor and concerned boyfriend in him squash the mood. Erections were flagging, and that wouldn’t do. 

“Good.” He nodded briskly. “As promised you’re in top shape. I need to check for any signs of inguinal hernias now. Please stand and remove your pants.”

This was always the part that turned grown men into big babies. Very few blokes liked someone fiddling about with the bait and tackle unless it was accompanied with a come-fuck-me-sailor smile.  John prided himself at putting his patients at ease during exams like these . . . but of course that wasn’t the point this time. Sherlock shimmied off the table to his feet. He dropped trou leaving his black briefs to puddle at his feet and waited patiently to be examined.

John loved Sherlock’s cock -- it was longer and thinner than his own, and rose slightly to the left with an insouciant tilt. He could have picked it out of a line-up any day of the week. John felt himself swelling, and he reached down, subtly adjusting his khakis to accommodate the fullness.  Sherlock smirked at him knowingly, but refrained from making any smart-mouthed comments. John usually snapped on a latex glove at this point in the proceedings, but he wanted to feel the goods on display this time so he merely coaxed a bare finger behind Sherlock’s right testicle.

“Turn your head, and cough for me, please."

Sherlock obligingly rolled out a baritone cough. Ordinarily John would move quickly to check the next side for an exam. This time though, John let his hand linger, roaming over the ball sack, cupping the testes in his palm. He took his time gently rubbing the silky skin between his fingers. Finally, he slid a digit to rest between the left testicle and groin.

“Cough, ahem, cough again for me, please.” For some reason John found himself growing a bit hoarse. Again Sherlock coughed, but it ended on a gasp when John trailed his other hand up the inside of his thigh. Sherlock sagged back against the table.

“Those are some damn fine balls you have there, Mr. Holmes.” John growled out, dirty and low as he slotted himself between Sherlock’s thighs, “but your cock is even nicer.” John pressed in tight, rocking his fully-clothed crotch against Sherlock’s naked body.

“Thank you, doctor,” Sherlock managed to croak. “I’d say you have some pretty impressive equipment yourself under there.” Sherlock reached around to grab as much of John’s arse as he could get through his too-many layers, urging him even closer.

“Ah, you naughty boy.” John laughed, his tongue popping out to wet his lower lip. “You’d like to see wouldn’t you?"

“Yes, doctor. _Please_.” Sherlock ground up against him, shooting him such a filthy look from under half-closed lids that John almost came right then. John stepped back and made a show of slowly unbuckling his belt, pulling it out loop by loop, and dropping it to the floor. Even slower, he popped the button on his trousers, and slid down the fly. Easing the fabric a few inches down his hips released his straining erection to bob proudly between them. Sherlock quickly reached forward to slide a hand up John's rigid member, and push his trousers farther down his thighs.

“Mmm, doctor, I’m impressed. Is that all for me?”

“Every inch of it,”  John purred. “Hang on a tick.” John reached back to grab the tube of lubricant off the worktop beside them. He squeezed a ribbon of the gel across his palm, holding it for a moment to warm, then moved to line their erections up, side by side. Gathering both cocks together, he ran his slick palm slowly over them both. It felt . . . delicious.

“So Mr. Holmes, nothing new with your penis? No bumps or changes in feeling or appearance?” John kept a mostly-steady voice with some difficulty.

“Oh, _God_ , John . . .” Sherlock threw his head back, leaning heavily on the table behind him as he dissolved into a series of delightfully incoherent noises.

“Ah yes, all seems to be in working order,”  John agreed pulling back. “Still need to check the prostate though.” John pushed Sherlock gently back to sprawl across the kitchen table, grabbing the lube once more. “Knees up” he told Sherlock. “There’s a good boy. Don’t worry. This won’t hurt a bit. ”

With another generous squeeze of lubricant, John slipped a careful finger between Sherlock’s buttocks, and pushed it into his arse. Twisting gently, he worked two fingers up, curling them slightly, to slide in and out until Sherlock fairly trembled beneath him. With his other hand, he resumed pumping Sherlock’s cock, leaning in to brush his own hard-on against Sherlock's thigh.

“Mr. Holmes,” John continued steadfastly as if his patient weren’t a debauched, falling-apart mess spread like Sunday tea before him. “Are you able to achieve and maintain a satisfactory erection?” In answer, Sherlock merely thrashed his head side to side, moaning louder.

“Show me, Love. Show me how much you can come.” John crooned. Sherlock jerked, and ejaculated with a spectacular bellow, splashing hot stripes over his belly and John’s hand. “Oh, God, _yes_.” John breathed out, watching Sherlock writhe under him, ignoring his own erection still jutting before him to enjoy this.

John pulled his fingers gently away, wiping them on a nearby dish towel. He laid a comforting hand over Sherlock's leg as he waited for the man to reassemble. As soon as Sherlock could draw a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and pushed up to sitting. With a wicked grin, he swiped his hand through the ejaculate coating his stomach, using it to stroke John to his own release in but a few, quick strokes. A red haze took John's vision with the first glorious wave of his orgasm. By the last pulse, his knees gave out, and he found himself collapsing bonelessly against Sherlock.

"Arrrrgh." John gargled.

“John. Sofa.” Sherlock said simply, moving them both to fall across it in a sticky heap. Sherlock ended up half over John, legs dangling to the floor.

“Oh. Oh, Love.” John said, rubbing his hand fondly over Sherlock’s back. "I had no idea how much I was missing out with playing doctor.”

“It’s probably more fun to experience as adults,” Sherlock observed, his voice muffled against John’s chest.

“Yeah, I guess so.” A suspicious thought ran through John's mind then. He half lifted his head to peer down at the mop of black curls lying on top of him. “Hey, I didn't get you into my bed just because I’m a doctor, did I?” It had been months of silly tap dancing after John moved into the flat before he and Sherlock finally made a move on each other.

“John, don’t be dull. You have many qualities to recommend you.  Of course it didn’t _hurt_ that you were a doctor.”  At that, they both burst out laughing, Sherlock’s head bouncing on John’s chest with each chuckle.

“Oh, _God_.” John groaned, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“What’s wrong John?” Sherlock lifted his head to peer up at him in concern.

“The next time I have to do a bloody physical on someone at the surgery. I can’t have any of THIS in my head. God, how unprofessional would that be to get a stiffie during some old git’s ruddy rectal exam?”

Sherlock merely chuckled. “I can’t say that I minded, but it would be a little rude of you to do that with everyone at work.  You don’t do that at work, do you?” Sherlock quirked one eyebrow.

“Sherlock. God. You’ll be the death of me yet.” John chuckled weakly, passing his hand over his eyes. “Of course I don't do this at work. Come on, up with you, you big cat. We need to have a shower before all this hardens.” John toed off his shoes and made to stand.

“John.” Sherlock stopped his rising with one long hand splayed over his chest.

“Yes, Love?” John waited.  Ocean-grey eyes met his over the buttons of his shirt.

“Thank you . . . for this . . . for playing along.”

“Any time, Love, any time.” John lifted Sherlock’s hand to drop a kiss in the center of his palm.  “Now, Holmes, shower.” 

Sherlock merely grinned and stood, pulling John up with him.


End file.
